Sherlock Holmes: A Proof
by DocJorgensen
Summary: In the mind of Sherlock Holmes, his multi-syllabic thoughts and reactions to what life - and Watson throw at him.
1. Alone

**Author name: **DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst, Friendship  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Rating:** K  
**Summary: **Holmes and the Great War.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own naught, alas.  
**Author Notes:** I originally wrote this for my Warrior series, but then realized it didn't fit quite right, so I made it a new story. God, I love playing in Sherlock Holmes' head!

* * *

"Alone"

In beginning days and weeks of 1914, I should admit that I would have scoffed at the idea of entering the little church. Indeed, I gave nary a glance to that little gray church with slate steeple, and continued on my way.

Silent, sat the village green. Composed, he would have called it – a face stalwart, not yet knowing the price owed.

In my deepest breast, I might admit to the smallest thread of anxiety, but the man, whom solely I might have confessed to, had deserted me, for the War.

He sent missives, some with scraps of poetry, tales of the men he commanded, and as much companionship they provided, I knew with bitter certainty, that I was alone.

In the long months that stretched from 1915 to 1916, I stood, sometimes, gazing upon the little Church. Oftentimes I would see a woman, gray and huddled against the wind, exiting, face full of fear and hope.

And I wondered what drove them to seek assurance. Prayers from my tongue would not come, would not come – for my soul, my heart, was in a bloody place, that they called France.

But then came silence. Letters arrived no more from the crippled surgeon, who took the place of younger men in that War.

I could only fear he was dead.

My clenched hands, shaking upon the dark oak of the pew, my eyes affixed heavenward.

Stubborn, my mouth issued no pleas, but in my mind I cried out, for hope, for some sign.

Anything to keep me from this agony.

This unknowing.

--And then it was, in the dark days and tumultuous nights of 1917, and in the sharp winds and desperate passions that arose in my breast in 1918, that my fears became most destitute.

I could see with certainty, some dreadful day in 1919, and the grey gravestone, that could become my dearest companion. Dr. John Watson, a man greatly beloved [1] it would read and I would have died a thousand times over in my heart, for letting him go at all.

But perhaps, that was better than to lie buried and worse still, forgotten, in a muddy trench grave surrounded by his foes, in far off France.

And yet, and yet, I was unknowing.

Still, I visited the old church, and prayers flew ever ready on the winds and breaths of my cognizance.

But I _knew._

My soul was fled from me, far removed.

My mind divined the truth – I was _alone. _

_

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[A/N]: Fresh cookies to anyone who can spot the poetry reference in the last two sentences.

[1] – This is the inscription on Dr. Joseph Belle's tombstone, that doctor-teacher of Sir Arthur's who inspired Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Need

**Author name: **DocJorgensen  
**Category**: Angst,  
**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

**Rating:** K  
**Summary: **Holmes, Watson and his drug use.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own naught, alas.  
**Author Notes:** Enjoy.

"Need"

* * *

"Yours is a sound body, Holmes, and sound mind. Where is the man I called 'most masterful'? Where is the will that ensnarled Moriarty? Tell me!" Watson's tongue was sharp and his eyes mounted with high flames. His fists clenched as I watched – one half of myself utterly unassailable, and one half found to be ashamed.

"I have – need, Watson. My mind shudders with my lack of my employment." My plea drew no favorable reaction but rather my companion's mouth drew tight with anger and his cheeks were bedecked with color.

"Do I not have need?" He snarled, his voice hushed and dangerous – the last word rang with the sound of gunshots, feral screams and the iron tang of blood. He stood, chest heaving with the restraint of his passions, the muscles in his face taut with deadly anger. "Do I not have _need?" _He repeated, voice gravelly, the utterance rang out as hard as steel.

He turned smartly, withdrawing from the room – though the retreat was more mine than his. His anger and his presence had filled the room – and I could taste the kind of man Watson was. To my everlasting chagrin, it was only after the door clicked shut with a sort of finality that I found the strength to murmur lowly;

"…Forgive me, Watson."


	3. The More Betrayed

A/N: Enjoy my attempt with Inspector Lestrade.

The Tragedy of G –. Lestrade

I stepped to his stoop feeling my quandary. I believe that I have never faced a more threatening opponent than the rather innocuous lion shaped doorknocker that hung upon the face of Watson's door. The lit windows of the house, rather than beckon invitingly, loomed in my face as I took another stride towards the door.

I held the knocker in my fist, rattling it once against the solid wood of the door, then stepped back swiftly. When no response came in a scant instant, I turned on my heel, resolving to leave with all speed. The door opened without a sound, and Lestrade's voice rang out, steely and gravelly, and I shivered slightly.

"Holmes."

The grey of my jacket swirled against the dark cobblestones, the faint shimmer of lights from the lamp post glittered prettily in the all consuming blackness – and I wavered at the warning that rattled and shook throughout Lestrade's animalistic snarl.

"Lestrade."

"You shouldn't have come. He was well enough when you were dead." I said nothing, for what could I say in the face of such cool rage, and so well deserved. I had mused much to myself, as to whether Watson should not be better off if I should remain dead permanently and had never found such an answer to my own satisfaction.

"He's a better man than you, or aye, me." Lestrade bit out, his sentence surprisingly colloquial for the usually dapper man, the expression on his face both angry, and seemingly futile. He understood already how events were to come to completion, and no matter how much he wished to derail them, or otherwise alter them, he knew that I would visit Watson once more. "I know you, Holmes. I know that he'll take you back, cheerfully, happily even, then…" Lestrade's voice trailed off, surprisingly forlorn and morose.

"Lestrade?" Watson's tenor came drifting through the open door – and I noticed with some curiosity how Lestrade shivered, yes, _shivered _as it drifted over him. "Who is there?" I heard footsteps, and that curious click of Watson's limp on the wooden floorboards. That sound rendered me more fearful than all of the criminals in London and I confess that I should rather try and make Mycroft give chase then face my old comrade.

Watson has us both at the throats, Lestrade and I, even though he knows it not. I can no longer survive without my Boswell and Lestrade, he can no longer live with what will come to pass, attached by that renowned loyalty of his and always smarting under Watson's devotion to me.

As Watson opened the door to let me in, the pleased smile on his face could not have been more welcoming, nor the warmth in his eyes less than genuine. The joy in his innocent blue gaze was turned solely upon me, his late friend, nor did it seem as though he took any notice of Lestrade. As I followed Watson into the confines of his home, although he was the original and previously only reason for my visit – my thoughts and indeed my sympathies lay only with the short, slight, graying man who stood on the front stoop.

Though I had mocked him on a rather regular basis with regard to his skills as a detective, I understood the man's rather taciturn and solitary nature. He made friends not quickly nor easily, the judgment of a man hurt badly by the world. Bitterness was written in the dark gaze – the self contemplative knowledge that he was discarded easily, quickly and tossed aside – secondhand and used.

For I had no doubt that the look of betrayal on his face was anything but feigned, and the palpable anguish in his dark eyes was, rather than irritating to me – a qualm that ran through my thoughts. . And I could not help but think, that no matter how badly I had used Watson with my death, Lestrade was the more betrayed by the both of us.


End file.
